City of Dragons (11 page)

“Don’t worry about it.”

She finally got the door shut, and leaned against it, her hands behind her, staring at the foreign object on her entry table. There wouldn’t be prints on it. If they could get into her apartment silently, on a Monday morning, they were too good to leave prints.

She picked it up. Joe Gillio’s, an Italian café out of the Olympic Hotel. A gathering hole for retired bootleggers. Except bootleggers never retired, they just changed cargo.

Miranda flipped it over. There were two words scrawled in pencil: “nice legs.”

Roy was wringing his hands when she left the Drake Hopkins. She gave him a pat on the shoulder. Fear, then anger hit her in a wave, making her legs shake.

No green Oldsmobiles clutched the grade or merged into the apathetic traffic. She gathered herself, feeling the city swirl and surge around her like the merry-go-round at Playland. Looking up and down the hill, she pulled sunglasses from her purse. Just another sunny day in San Francisco.

She headed for the hotel bustle of the St. Francis. Her feet, sheathed in navy pumps that eased the strain on her legs, walked down Mason toward a more expensive breakfast than usual. This morning she didn’t really give a damn about saving a quarter.

The St. Francis. One of the oldest hotels in the city and one of the stateliest, overlooking Union Square and the grand department stores with the presumptive authority of a floor walker. It had survived the Quake and Fire, and like the other buildings that lived, scattered throughout the city, the experience graced it with an air of stability, even arrogance. Build your steel and glass and chrome, the St. Francis said. I’ll be here forever.

Miranda crossed the street at Union Square, staring up at the flags that stretched and snapped against the red-brown brick above the doors and awning. She needed that attitude, that sense of permanence. For fifty cents, it came with pancakes.

The Braeburn was one of those nondescript brick apartment houses that faded against the sun and damp. Eventually it would disappear. Some of its tenants already had.

It squatted on Sutter between Leavenworth and Jones like an apple lady on a park bench. Young couples with too many kids, spinster matrons, and men who worked the nightshift called it home. The building reeked of barely-there respectability.

Miranda stood outside, the blueberry pancakes and four cups of coffee from the St. Francis filling her stomach with more than food. Ten o’clock. Time for work.

She buzzed number 343. The little tag that read PLACER was almost indecipherable. No answer on the first ring, except for a large man in overalls who stumped down the front steps, giving her a look and forgetting about her immediately afterward. He spat a wad of tobacco into the gutter, and whistled as he walked down Sutter toward Leavenworth.

She rang again, this time keeping her finger on the buzzer. A baby started crying somewhere inside, and a window in the front yanked open. A baggy-eyed face with hair that looked like it washed floors stared down at her, and the window shut again. Finally, the opening buzzer rattled the door, and she pushed her way into the foyer, taking off her sunglasses. Edith was home.

The fourth stair creaked and the pale orange carpet was stringy along the sides, the smell of antiseptic smugly masking any tenant’s second thoughts. Rooms were hard to come by in San Francisco. Clean usually cost extra.

When she reached the third floor, she heard a small gasp from the quiet darkness of the landing.

“Miranda? I haven’t seen you in months. Haven’t heard from you, either. I kind of thought you’d moved east.”

The voice was whispered, not too reproachful. Miranda turned right, smiling, toward the middle-aged woman with her head out the door.

Edith was dishwater blond and dumpy, a woman who wore cheer on her face by default. She was perched on the edge of forty but hadn’t fallen over yet.

“I’m sorry, Edith. You know I’m lousy at staying in touch, particularly with all the work at the Fair.”

Miranda led with her trump card. Edith’s face brightened immediately, though she still didn’t open the door, and kept her voice a whisper.

“Oh, yeah—I remember reading about you. Those were some big cases, huh? Guess it beats nursing all to hell.”

“So far it’s a living. Can I come in? I’m on a case—that’s what I’m here about.”

Edith’s cheeks flushed. “I—I’ve got someone …”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Say no more.” She leaned closer. “Sly girl, Edith. Who is it?”

Clutching a pink robe around her neck, Edith stepped into the hallway, shutting the door carefully. The flush spread down to her neck.

“I don’t want to wake him. His name is Milton. He’s a clerk at Mount Zion’s.” Her face grew even softer, and her eyes drew back to the doorway, as if she could see through the wood to Milton snoring in bed.

“Have you set a date?”

She shook her head, and the red intensified. Miranda hurried over it without stumbling.

“Well, look, Edith, I’m very happy for you. I’m on a case right now … I was hoping you could help me.”

“What do you need?”

Miranda squeezed her friend’s shoulders, suppressing a twinge of guilt. “I can’t give these things to the cops. Don’t ask me why, it’s better you don’t know. But I need to see what you can tell me from the bloodstains … blood type, maybe how old they are?”

She pulled out a paper bag from her purse, and handed it to Edith, who stared dubiously at the bloodied bandages inside.

“You work at the Medico-Dental later tonight, right? Healy Labs? Can you run some tests?”

Edith was poking her finger at the bandages. “Yeah. I guess so, Miranda. I can try, anyway. When do you need to know?”

“As soon as possible. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Edith gave her an embarrassed smile. “I hope you can come by and meet Milton sometime. Maybe go to lunch. It’s been a long time.”

“Sure. Let’s do that. Here’s my card—phone’s in my office, if I’m not there just leave a message with the service.”

“All right. I hope we can get together. It would be nice to talk about old times, you know?”

Old times meant Spain, when they were both there as nurses. Miranda had fudged her qualifications, got in by taking a few classes and strong-arming the Red Cross. Edith was an at-home convalescent nurse, caring for elderly people, wanting excitement in her life. After Spain she’d had enough.

“Sure, Edith. And thanks for doing this for me—I don’t know what I’d do without you. Ring me if you want tickets to the Fair next year.”

“Oh, can I? I’d love to take Milton!”

Miranda smiled at her, putting on her sunglasses. If Milton were still around, she’d make sure they both got tickets.

She stepped into the coolness of Sutter Street. A White Front streetcar was gliding toward her, headed for the not-so-fresh air of Whitney’s and Topsy’s and Laughing Sal down at the beach.

Miranda climbed on, nodding to the conductor, who was arguing about whether Lefty could lead the Seals to another pennant.

The car rolled away, heading down Sutter. She leaned back against the hard seat, looked out the window. No green Olds. She clutched her large black leather purse, feeling the outline of the Smith and Wesson with her fingertips.

Ten blocks or so until she reached Webster. She took out her
Chadwick’s Street Guide
, flipped to Wilmot Street. The Number Two car would continue on down the Richmond District, crawling to a stop at Sutro Baths. The hobo in front of her needed one. She opened a window to clear the air, her eyes behind the sunglasses still hunting for green.

Miranda opened her purse, taking out her wallet. She removed the card from the lining and held it to her nose. Sweat, cigarettes, and cheap aftershave. She flipped it over and looked at the writing, her stomach tightening. Block letters with a blunt pencil, deliberate and slow. Just like he’d learned it in the second grade.

She put the card away carefully, taking out a pair of gloves. They matched her dark blue tweed jacket. She was dressed to be demure today, the respectable Miss Corbie, as tame as an undertaker’s secretary. Two more stops.

The conductor rang his bell at a rickety truck blocking the tracks. A squawking of chickens erupted, and Miranda stood up to look outside. The poultry man was rushing back to start Old Bessie. After four or five attempts, a rooster crowed and the ignition turned over, to the general amusement of Miranda’s fellow passengers. The White Front crawled along.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to them. What could she say? Sorry I saw your son die? Sorry I couldn’t save him? Sorry no one gives a fuck about who did it?

She stepped out at the corner of Webster, walked uphill toward Bush, then half a block to Pine. Wilmot was a small residential street, hovering on the outskirts of Little Osaka. The air was quieter here, and colder, the wind from the two cemeteries of Calvary and Laurel Hill blowing a somber chill through the Western Addition.

Number 8 was a small, wood-frame rooming house, smaller and more worn than the Braeburn. It had given up the fight for respectability long ago, and now just wanted to sleep, decaying slowly, one board and one boarder at a time.

She climbed four front steps, knocked on the door and waited. Shuffling feet behind it answered her. A small, elderly Japanese woman opened the door.

“I’m looking for the Takahashis. There wasn’t a number or buzzer.”

The woman stared at her, drawing the edges of her kimono together. “You police?” she demanded.

The question surprised Miranda. “No. I’m not with the police. But I do want to help—”

She started to close the door. “Don’t need help.”

Miranda took two steps at a time, holding her hand against the wood shutting her out. “I think you do.”

The woman looked at her again. “Who are you?”

“I’m the woman who found Eddie. I was with him when he died.”

The woman met her eyes. This time she nodded. She opened the door, and Miranda stepped over the threshold into another small, dark foyer. It was as clean as the Braeburn but claustrophobic, with cherry-wood furniture and altar incense burning behind a lacquered screen.

“I get them.”

She walked up the narrow stairway, her small feet soundless. Miranda heard a knock, and then several voices, raised in discussion, speaking Japanese.

Time to meet the Takahashis.

Eight

G
ray-brown smoke curled languidly, hesitating before it drifted past the stairs. The incense suffocated her and so did the room. Add satin padding and it could’ve been six feet under. Miranda moved near a paint-scratched door that presumably separated the kitchen, wrapping both hands around her purse so she wouldn’t reach for a cigarette.

The voices were louder now, none of them under fifty or inclined to climb down and speak with her. The sharpie at Fong Fong mentioned Eddie’s sister. Miranda flipped up a corner of the worn, ornate carpet with her shoe. This wasn’t much of a place for the young.

A photograph in a tarnished silver frame gleamed dully by the entrance door, perched on a mahogany hall tree more expensive than the rooming house. She ran her gloved finger across the rich red brown. No dust.

The handsome young man stared proudly and fiercely into the camera. The clothes were her father’s generation. Maybe Eddie’s grandfather. She searched the taut, high cheekbones for a resemblance, and though Eddie had been a good-looking kid, the pride had transformed into something less, the ferocity into something more.

She set the frame back in place and looked around. Four rooms, all in a row at the top of the stair landing. Four boarders or more, depending on how many people slept in each room. She wondered if the Takahashis paid the rent or collected it. And whether Eddie’s work for Filipino Charlie had helped.

A creak signaled a settlement had been reached. She smoothed down the tweed. The old lady who let her in was climbing down the stairs. Two other people, a man in his dotage and a woman thirty years younger, hovered behind her.

Miranda’s eyes accidentally met those of the younger woman, and she blinked, almost flinching. The last time she’d looked into them had been two days ago. When Eddie was dying on Sacramento Street.

Eddie’s father was stooped, crooked, bald. A cane kept him propped in a semi-upright position. His rheumy-red eyes dragged from the floor to peer at Miranda. No sign of greeting or grief.

The woman behind him was a different story. Sadness. Rage. And fear—just like Eddie.

The old lady with the tatty kimono spoke first.

“Mr. Takahashi. Mrs. Takahashi. You talk, you talk down here.”

No upstairs invitation then. Must’ve been part of the settlement.

“Thank you. I’ll be brief.”

She wanted to ask who the hell the lady in the robe was. She focused on Mrs. Takahashi instead. The wife kept still, behind her husband.

“My name is Miranda Corbie. I was with your son when he died.”

Eddie’s mother was a pretty woman, early fifties, with a few gray hairs fluttering around a soft, round placid face, worn at the edges by mourning. She wore a floppy black dress about eight years out of date and glasses that made her look dowdier than her figure suggested. Her eyes shifted around Miranda, cautious, not looking at her directly.